


Stirrings of a flawless plan

by Habernero



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Sexual Slavery
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2014-07-26
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:24:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Habernero/pseuds/Habernero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The truth was, Derek never actually paid for Stiles. He stole him.</i>
</p><p> </p><p><strong>Note</strong>: In the interests of avoiding false advertising/overselling, I'll only add tags once they're featured in the story. These tags may come to include: unresolved sexual tension; explicit sexual contact; first time; voyeurism; prostitution; multiple partners; memory magic; magical accident; dubious consent; romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Impulse

The truth was, Derek never actually paid for Stiles. He stole him. 

He’d been lucky enough that a storm had waylaid the slave-ship bringing Stiles and a handful of others in to port; most of the Market Sanctuary had closed down by then, with rain splattering warm and fragrant through the scanty wooden planking that made up the majority of the stalls. It was the sort of weather that sent the well-to-do heeling off home. Derek, hugging himself in a thin black shirt bound tight to his body by water, had no home to heel off to.

To this day, he didn’t know if he’d call it lucky on Stiles’ account.

The slaver had lined them up, despite the lack of customers. Thin, mostly: scrawny shoulders hunched under prickly damp hessian. To a man they looked like they’d seen better days, their eyes dull with exhaustion and resentment, and then there was Stiles, bleak energy shining out of him like the last defiant blaze of a dying star.

“Twenty gil’,” the slaver sneered, when Derek sent a street-boy to just ask, for no reason, just because. The audacity of the price, when the street-boy reported back, ought to have turned Derek off the idea completely. Instead, he felt his focus sharpen. A spark of ambition flared. He wanted to know him. 

There was enough storm-noise for the average person's peripheral awareness to be fairly poor. During a long growl of thunder, Derek slunk behind the market stall with its sodden wood and shifting ‘roach holes. He climbed up into the awning, keeping out of the line of sight of the slaver, who was checking his shiny pocketwatch for the sixteenth time in as many minutes. Derek crawled along a beam, pushing through the wet overlapping material of the eaves, until he was above them. And then, when the next fan of lightning had finished unfurling across the sky, leaving after-images flashing even in _his_ eyes, he dropped.

Derek had never pursued answers as to why he was faster and better balanced at certain times of the month; Angelique called it his period, because it was accompanied by piercing bad moods and a heaviness of humour that was impossible to shift. Derek had a feeling it was more than that, but that was a matter of his parents and their allies, and he had no more desire to go knocking after them than they had for sheltering him from an oncoming storm.

Speaking of.

He landed with a boot in the slaver’s lumbar spine, sending him stumbling forwards with a curse that was swallowed by the noise of the driving rain. He grabbed the chain that ran through Stiles’ wrist cuffs and across the back of his collar, and sought out its weakest link: the point where a metal ring ran through a curlicue in the slave-pen’s wall. 

“Wha—“ Stiles yelped, his shrill voice barely audible as water drummed down around them. 

Derek snapped the chain between his fists. “Come on.”


	2. Flight

Their footfalls rang out in wet slaps as they sprinted along the ever-narrower cobbled streets towards Oldtown. The rain was still sheeting down, plastering Derek’s hair to his scalp and muffling any noise of pursuit. 

“This… this…” As well as fleeing for his life, Stiles was apparently trying to talk. “This is a – really – really – ah, fuck!” he gasped, and went quiet. 

Derek whirled back; Stiles was clutching his stomach, bent double. 

Derek shielded his eyes with his hands, scanning the dark streets behind them, but couldn’t discern any movement besides the flashing raindrops and the steam of his own steady breath. 

He closed the distance between them and looked at Stiles more closely. “Are you hurt?”

“Are you half-beast?” Stiles retorted, dragging in huge gasps and coughing a little. 

Derek blinked. “Uh—“

Stiles straightened and squinted at him. “I—sorry! I meant,“ he said, shaking his head and waving one pale hand in a vague circle, “I’ve just never seen a man run like that before, like he’d never tire.”

“Oh,” Derek said. He didn’t know what to say. They needed to keep moving. “It’s how I stay alive,” he tried, scanning the street ahead, then rested a hand at the base of Stiles’ spine and urged him forwards. “Can you walk?”

Stiles stumbled against him, righted himself and nodded, jaw set. His thick hessian smock was sodden under Derek’s fingers, freezing, hanging heavy off his thin shoulders. Derek considered telling him to take it off, but Stiles was as pale as boiled fish; the dingy cloth helped the shadows to swallow him. Best keep it on for now.

Ahead, a dark space sat between two crumbling buildings, mismatched and crooked as hags’ teeth. Derek led Stiles into it, pausing momentarily to let even his own eyes adjust before continuing forwards. The walls afforded a certain amount of shelter from the wind and rain. It smelled of mould.

“It’s not far,” Derek said, moving ahead as the passageway narrowed. The ground underfoot was becoming treacherous, studded with broken cobbles and piecemeal slate; if they hadn’t been seen ducking in here, it was unlikely they would be followed. 

The walls ran closer together until Derek had to walk sideways, one shoulder twisted back. The soft hiss of the undercity river became audible; a knot in Derek’s chest loosened, even as Stiles slowed uncertainly. 

“Where—where are you taking me?” Stiles asked, then laughed under his breath. “I mean, uh, talk about the wrong question at the wrong time, but—” 

“Somewhere safe,” Derek said. Well. “Safe for Oldtown,” he amended.

“Oldtown,” Stiles echoed, and his footsteps stuttered. Then ceased. “You mean…”

The passageway was too narrow for Derek to turn around, and besides, they still needed to keep moving. “Yes,” he said. “ _East of the river, South of the law_. Come on.”

“But—but Oldtown’s abandoned, isn’t it? Derelict and – and dangerous! All sinlords and turncoats and wild animals and...”

“Yes,” Derek said. “Or as I tend to call it – home.”


	3. Crossing

Sprawled across a series of low hills, Beacon Hills’ township was circumscribed by the broad black river to the east, the ocean to the south-east, and mountains to the north. Centremost and occupying the tallest hill was Argent Castle, all turrets and polished stone. Its immediate surroundings were made up of guild houses and parks and wide, attractive streets; the other districts spiralled out from that wealthy centre, until the westerly edge of the town became a raggedy suburb, a mosaic of intermingled farmland and forest, and the northern-most buildings butted up against the plundered rock-faces of the silver mines that had made the Argent family’s fortune. 

East of the river, even before the troubles, the district now known as Oldtown had always sat apart. Generations ago, bridges joining Oldtown to the rest of Beacon Hills would be built each year, only to be swept away the following spring in the river’s furious swollen thaw. 

By the time the masons could build courageously enough to ensure more permanent structures, Oldtown had prosperity in its own right: it didn’t have any silver mines, no, but it didn’t need them either, instead reaching out greedily into the fertile plains that ran all the way to the coast.

When Oldtown fell to beasts and barbarians, all the bridges were smashed into the water. 

Inconvenient, Derek reflected now. More inconvenient than he’d previously realised; it was becoming rapidly obvious that Stiles would not be able to cross the river on his own. 

“Are you kidding me,” Stiles kept saying, as Derek pointed out the flat wet rocks glinting amongst the rush of dark water. 

“I don’t kid,” Derek said, but Stiles didn’t appear to hear him. Derek tried to sound encouraging. “Look – the furthest rock’s unsteady, but the rest are solid pillars – they’ve fallen against each other under the water, much bigger than they look. They’ve been here since Oldtown fell. They’re stable.”

“Are you kidding me,” Stiles murmured again, staring at the black hissing water. 

Derek blew out a frustrated breath. This was the narrowest part of the river – no more than ten feet across. Downstream it was twice that, and banked with sinking sands that could swallow a horse. Upstream, as far as the largest ruined bridge and beyond, there were Argent patrols in all weathers. 

“That’s why it’s possible to cross here at all,” Derek tried. “The currents – they gouge out the mud and small rocks, but these big slabs remain. If you fall in,” he said, regretting it instantly as Stiles upturned his wide eyes to Derek’s face, “you can hang on to any of the rocks, they won’t budge. And I’ll help. Just—watch out for the moss. If it touches your bare skin, it leaves welts.”

“Welts.”

“It’s a simple stride, stride, hop, and stride,” Derek said, pointing out the rocks again, as if that would make a difference. He shouldn’t have mentioned the moss.

Stiles was shaking his head. 

“We’re nearly there,” Derek said. He could make out Stiles chewing on his lower lip. “The only other half-decent ford—“ The ruined bridge. “—is an hour away.” _And crawling with Argent troops_.

“I can’t.”

“I could carry you.”

Stiles blinked at him. “You can stride-stride-hop-stride whilst carrying me?”

Derek thought of the various people he’d carried across this river: Angelique, Isaac, an unknown beggar girl he’d found hyperventilating in the very passageway they’d just emerged from; Laura’s body. “Yes.”

Stiles blew out a breath, then pressed his lips together and nodded. “Go on, then.”

Derek eyed him for a second. Wiry little thing. “Get on my back,” he decided, because that would be a symmetrical load, leaving his hands free. 

He dropped to one knee, and after a long moment Stiles draped himself over Derek’s back: two cold arms winding around his neck, a pointed chin digging into his shoulder. He was shivering, Derek realised, as he stood again and tested his balance. Shivering and soaked. 

“Hold tight,” Derek said, and ran across the river. His boots skidded on the wet rocks, but no more than he’d anticipated; his body adapted to the extra weight, giving him more spring here, a more squarely planted foot there. He should have done this straight away. He didn’t know what he had been thinking. He—he hadn’t been thinking.

Stiles clung to him, his knees nestled in against the dips of Derek’s waist, his breath hot on the back of Derek’s neck. His hands were tight fists across Derek’s collar. To his credit, he hadn’t made a sound. 

“Okay?” Derek asked. 

“Yes. What’s this?” 

It took Derek a moment to realise Stiles was plucking at the thin metal chain that held Derek’s amulet around his neck. It had slipped loose of his shirt, and Stiles was shaping it curiously with his fingers. 

“Nothing,” Derek said, and found he was scowling. He dumped Stiles in the undergrowth and tucked the amulet back under his clothes without a word. Trust him to have rescued the one slave who hadn’t been trained not to ask questions. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said, with more bite than Derek had expected.

Derek tried to shrug off a sudden flare of irritation. What the fuck was he doing? He’d gone to the Market Sanctuary seeking scraps, food or otherwise; what the fuck had possessed him to try and save someone?

Although—no, he thought, shying away from examining his motives too closely. It was too late now. 

Stiles folded his arms, staring back at the gleaming chaos of the river as if he saw something else entirely. Derek looked at his profile – the pointed chin and pouty mouth and dark, defiant eyes – and gave himself a little shake. 

“Come on,” he said, scanning the scrubby verge leading away from the river, uneven with crushed remains of buildings, long-overgrown, now shot through with enterprising young saplings. “Not far now.”

He could still feel Stiles’ breath on the back of his neck. He didn’t want to examine that too closely either.


	4. Kindling

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He's saving him, not kidnapping him, right?

Ducking between broken walls, creeping through half-shells of abandoned wares-houses, trying not to stir up too much dust or noise, until at last—

“We’re here.”

Stiles didn’t look impressed, and Derek couldn’t blame him. 

Once, this building had been a grand black-brick stable, housing half a dozen horses at least. It had had staff quarters to one side, a coach house to the other, and above, the hayloft, holding enough feed to last the winter months with ease. 

Now it looked ruined. The huge doors were missing from their hinges, and a chunk had been taken out of one wall as if a cart had mown right through. There was a rustling noise as they approached: small quick things darting deeper into the darkness. 

Derek led Stiles into its deserted shadows, walking softly. High up in one far corner there was a curved metal grating that used to hold hay for the stabled horses. Above it, difficult to make out at this distance, stood a trapdoor into the loft.

Derek drew Stiles into the corner and touched his shoulder. 

“Wait here,” he said, before beginning to climb the wall, his fingertips fitting easily into well-known gaps between certain bricks. 

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Stiles said, staring up at Derek hanging off the wall. His eyes must have adjusted to the darkness as well. “Who _are_ you?”

Derek grunted, teeth clenched, as he reached up to unhook the metal grating. “Now you ask,” he said with effort, as he manoeuvred the grating onto a rusty hook he’d jammed between two bricks for this very purpose. 

Stiles gave a hollow laugh. “Don’t think I’m not aware of my dubious life choices right now,” he said. Derek could hear his teeth chattering. “But, I mean, you’re not talking about selling me to the highest bidder yet, so that’s, uh, good. That must be good! And even if this—“ He waved his hands around, sweeping pale movements in the gloom. “— _situation_ is not, you know, hugely reassuring, still, skipping town with you – that’s got to be lesser of two evils, right? Not that you’re necessarily evil! But you don’t say much, do you, and that’s not reassuring either, and—“

“Shut up,” Derek said suddenly, going still as he caught the unmistakable grind of a hand-hauled cart outside, audible to him even above the drumming rain. It sounded like it was coming their way.

Stiles’ voice dropped to a hiss. “What?”

They needed to disappear. Derek reached up to grip the edges of the opening above him, muscles bunching in a practised sequence, and swung himself up into the silent darkness of the hayloft. 

“Hey!” he heard behind him, a panicked gust of breath. 

Derek lay on the floor of the hayloft and reached down into the gloom below. “You have to climb the wall,” he said quietly, keeping his voice calm. “Follow the path I took, and then grab my arm. Now.”

“But—“

“Now,” Derek repeated. The cart was definitely getting closer; from the uneven noises it was making, Derek suspected scrap-scavengers rather than an organised patrol, but any attention was dangerous attention.

There was a silence, and then a series of scuffs and bitten off curses. 

Derek waited, wondering if he should drop down again and boost him up through the opening, but time was getting short; surely even Stiles could hear the scraping of the wheels on their mismatched axels, cobbled together from whatever butchered carts the scavengers had managed to get their hands on. 

“I can’t,” he heard Stiles whisper. “I just—I can’t!“

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Try again.” Stiles wasn’t his height—Derek pictured the wall, frowning. “By your left knee, that’s the first toe-hold. Then reach up, dig your fingers between any bricks you can, and straighten that leg. The next toe-hold is currently by your shoulder.”

“It’s so dark.”

“Least of your worries if they get you.” 

Stiles made a wounded noise, and then there was another series of scuffles—and Derek felt a cold hand snatch at his wrist, clawing and desperate.

Derek wrapped his fingers around Stiles’ wrist and gripped hard. 

“Hold on,” he said, and hauled Stiles up by his arm; there was a sickening moment when Stiles twisted heavily, a panicky jerk as his feet swung free of the wall, but Derek gritted his teeth and kept pulling, dragging Stiles up, and soon he was scrambling up into the hayloft beside him. 

As soon as he was released, Stiles fell to the floor next to Derek, gasping for breath, louder-sounding now that they were out of the wind. 

Derek closed the trapdoor as quietly as he could. That brought the darkness to absolute, even for him, and cut off all sounds apart from the faintest tap of raindrops on the roof; the stables had been built with strong thick walls to insulate the horses from startling sounds and keep the hay from any trace of damp. There had been one other door up here, access for the hay-handlers, and Derek’s first task when he’d found this place had been to brick it over. 

Derek became aware of Stiles shifting next to him. He could hear his hands rubbing together, chafing away the cold – or perhaps he was injured. 

Almost before he’d realised he was doing it, Derek was letting his senses reach out: combing through the darkness in earnest and taking in the sounds and scents of this strange young man he’d somehow found himself bringing home. Derek could smell him, the damp tang of his clothes and the salty otherness beneath, a prickly mixture of exertion and fear. Stiles’ breathing was shivery and forcedly slow—not too injured, then, or not so badly that he couldn’t control himself—and he was still trembling, the edges of his wet garments whispering against each other. 

Derek opened his mouth to say, “You should take them off,” and then shut it again, as the idea of Stiles undressing in the darkness in front of him made a deep and dangerous warmth flare in his gut. 

_But you don’t say much, do you, and that’s not reassuring either—_

Derek cleared his throat. “I’ve got candles,” he made himself say, ”but we should hold off a few minutes for the scavengers to go past.” Any hint of light or warmth, even so small—it was a risk.

“Right,” Stiles said quickly, “um,” and all movements stopped. Then he started chafing his hands together again. 

Derek’s mind went blank, and he cast around for the right words. For any words. Any at all. “We… should be safer here. Safe, even. More or less.” 

Stiles made a small opaque noise, and then nothing. 

Derek waited for a couple of minutes, staring at his own unseen hands in the dark, and realised he was straining his ears for any further reply. Unease was building in his chest. Stiles had been talking freely, earlier. Now—Derek wasn’t sure what had changed. 

In fact, Derek wasn’t sure about anything. His various trustworthy certainties were being swept away in a powerful undertow of doubt. In a heartbeat, he was no longer Stiles’ saviour; he was a kidnapper, and the kid was desperate to get away. 

Derek rose to his feet. The silence had stretched too long. The loft was large enough that Derek’s meagre belongings clustered easily into just one corner, under the eaves, so he didn’t normally need light up here - but he absolutely needed to see Stiles’ face. Now.

He found the tin of candle stumps where he’d left it, midway between the trapdoor and the heap of blankets and hay where he usually slept—then paused.

_Here goes._

Derek would probably remember the moment he struck the flame to light that first candle forever.

The loft filled with golden light and lurching shadows and in the middle of it was Stiles, a crouched dark figure with both hands clasped together, his face unspeakably lovely as he stared at Derek’s hands with an expression of greedy wonder.

Candles were a commodity and Derek normally only lit one at night, or went without, but… 

Wordlessly, Derek pushed the largest candle towards Stiles, and set about lighting two more. The fat spluttered a little and started to let off an oily, comforting smell. 

Occupied with the task, he nevertheless heard Stiles’ breathing even out next to him, all his shivers diminishing. Fear rather than injury, then. Amazing what a little light could do. 

Derek lit the third candle and set it down with careful quietness. He glanced back at Stiles, who was darting unsubtle looks around the room, his eyes huge. Stiles’ mouth tightened again as his gaze swept over the makeshift bed in the corner; suddenly he looked sodden and cold and very, very lost. 

“You should get out of those wet clothes,” Derek said, before he could stop himself. 

All Stiles’ attention flew to him, his face going slack and uncertain before setting into firm lines of resolve. 

“Right,” Stiles said, nodding and pressing his lips together. “Yes, uh, of course. You want me to—I mean, I mean what do you, uh, what do you want me to do?” His gaze flicked to the bed and back to Derek’s face, and then he added, as if Derek might not have worked it out yet, “For you.”

Derek’s blood rushed hot through his body, and for a moment the temptation of it bordered on overwhelming. Stiles was offering himself – asking Derek outright, expecting something to happen, not unwilling – but he was also still shivering, and that was... That was not right. 

Saviour, not kidnapper. 

Derek swallowed hard and got to his feet. “I’ll get you a blanket.”

“A blanket,” Stiles repeated faintly, and blinked several rapid times. His voice stayed very small. “For me to… kneel on?”

“For you to wear,” Derek snapped, striding abruptly to the bed as his brain filled with images of Stiles kneeling in front of him. He grabbed his thickest blanket and balled it up, chucked it in Stiles’ direction despite the naked flames. 

Stiles caught the bundle mid-air and then frowned at it, as if he’d never seen a blanket before. “So I’m…” he started, slowly, and hugged the blanket to his chest, peering at Derek through his lashes. 

Derek glared back. “I’m not—that. I’m not going to _take_ from you.”

“Oh,” Stiles said. “Right. I—sorry.”

Derek looked away as Stiles scrabbled off his wet shirt, and wished he hadn’t noticed the bright flare of relief crossing Stiles’ face as the message finally sank in. 

In his peripheral vision he was aware of the pale gleam of revealed skin, the hurried little movements as Stiles rubbed himself dry and wrapped himself in the blanket. It would probably scratch, Derek thought. His skin looked so soft. But better some discomfort than shivering all night – or worse, sickness. 

He kept his voice low, even. “Never mind. Are you hungry?”

He glanced back in time to see a pang of something new flash across Stiles’ face, before it was gone in a shrug of his enrobed shoulders. “I could eat.”

Stores of oats and grain were the easiest to break into, and didn’t spoil up here. Derek made them each a small bowl of rough porridge, taking the chill off over the candle flames. He hesitated, then added a thick scrape of honey to one of the bowls and handed it to Stiles. He sat again, not too close, and set a half-bottle of pomace brandy down on the floor between them. 

If Stiles was used to better fare, he didn’t mention it. He ate like someone might soon take it away again, barely chewing, and Derek tried not to look at his mouth, or throat, or the smooth glimpse of candlelit skin where the blanket was slipping off one shoulder. 

A blanket to kneel on. This boy, kneeling for him, obedient, grateful—but not eager, Derek reminded himself sharply. Not hungry for _him_. 

Derek ate his own porridge more slowly; it seemed to stick halfway down his throat. He poured a generous measure of brandy into the empty honey jar, swirling it until the remnants of honey dissolved, then took a quick gulp. That was better. He drank again, holding it in his mouth for a few seconds, savouring the sweet-acid heat on his tongue. 

Stiles’ bowl was already empty. 

“Do you want more? I’m afraid I don’t have much else.”

“It’s okay,” Stiles said, shaking his head and pressing his lips together. 

Derek passed him the jar. “Have some of that, then. Take the taste away.”

“It tasted fine,” Stiles said weakly, but accepted the jar and took a tentative sip before jerking it back from his lips as if the glass was red hot. “What the hell is this?”

Derek suppressed a smile. “Distilled wine,” he said. “Helps with the cold.”

“Helps knock you out, you mean,” Stiles retorted, tipping the jar from side to side and regarding its contents with deep suspicion. 

“It takes more than some two-copper market spirit to knock me out.” 

Stiles snorted before taking another dubious sip, grimacing again. “Burns,” he muttered, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before meeting Derek’s eye. “But, uh, thank you.”

“Welcome,” Derek said, and then, before silence could swallow them up again, he asked, “So where are you from?” 

Stiles’ eyes filled with shadows. He stared at nothing for a long moment, then cleared his throat and focused on Derek again. “Sandmark,” he said. “Have you been?” 

The golden city across the water; the city of old kings. No wonder Stiles couldn’t cross a river on his own – he was from a land of gilded bridges. 

Derek shook his head. “I don’t like sea voyages.”

“Neither do I,” Stiles said swiftly.

Derek winced. No. “Wrong boat to choose.”

There was a pause. Stiles’ words, when they came, were careful and quiet. “I know that now.“

Derek couldn’t help himself. “How did you find yourself on it?”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again. 

Well, there were things Derek wouldn’t tell a stranger on a first night, either. 

“Never mind,” Derek said. “I don’t need to know. We should sleep,” he added, to spare him further questions, and then regretted it when Stiles’ face closed down even more. 

“Where?”

Derek ignored a dull stab through his chest. They could either make this simple from the outset, or not. “I sleep over there. Blankets over the last of the hay. You should bed down with me. I’m not—I’m not going to touch you,” he said, blowing out an exasperated breath at Stiles’ stiff shoulders and wide eyes, “you have my word, that’s not why I brought you here. But it will be warmer.”

“Okay.”

“And you needn’t look at me like my word’s not worth a copper coin,” Derek added, getting to his feet and walking over to shake out the blankets, making the candle flames dance. 

“Sorry,” Stiles said, trailing after him. “I didn’t mean to.”

“Never mind,” Derek said, for what felt like the tenth time this evening. Tiredness was rising up in him, aided by the burgeoning glow of the drink inside him. He kicked off his boots and got into bed without undressing, feeling the weight of Stiles’ gaze on his back. 

To make his point, he lay on his side at one edge of the blankets, facing away.

After a long moment he heard the rustling of movement, then felt the pile of hay beneath him creak and compress as Stiles lowered himself into Derek’s makeshift bed. 

“You can’t leave the candle burning overnight,” Derek said quietly.

“Sorry,” Stiles said, and shifted again. Then a soft puff of his breath put the room back into darkness, and Derek realised he was holding himself utterly still.

There was silence for a long time. Derek tried to unknot his shoulders without moving too much. The slabs of hay had never felt so uneven. Even his own breath seemed to hiss like a bellows. 

“You know,” Stiles said suddenly, his voice unnaturally casual in the darkness, “when I woke up this morning, I did not reckon on being a fugitive by nightfall.”

There were a hundred non-committal things Derek could have said then – should have said – things that would defuse or offset the strange charge in the air – but he wasn’t used to thinking before he spoke. 

“Better than the alternative?” 

He could have kicked himself, except that Stiles answered him twice as fast, his voice thick: “Yes. Like you wouldn’t believe.”


End file.
